Somewhere deep inside my soul, a tiny bone shattered – Five poems from “The Bitter Herb”, by Raphael D’Abdon

1. children training

 

two boys chasing each other on the street

with toy guns in their hands

 

the small one gives up and

falls to the floor,

acting out his own death.

 

the big one stands by, and

pulls the trigger.

 

there is no blood on his friend,

 

for now.

 

 

2. my name

 

 

1. raphael

 

its root is

featured in one of god’s names

like badu in you got me

 

meaning:

god has healed,

the divine healer,

guides the younger

comforts the elder

protects the traveler, the blind,

the physician

 

one of the four angels

who stand round the throne of god,

the angel of a pool called

bethesda

where the sick go

to be healed

 

he always goes to those who know

they are too weak to make it on their own

he is filled with all good things through him

 

prayer is good for him

with fasting and alms

 

2. abdon

 

the root means

“yours truly”

 

in the bible it appears four times as the name of a man

and once

as that of a city

 

the masculine noun means both worker and subject

the feminine noun means labour, service,

religious discipline and

a collective performance of queens

 

the verb means to work or to serve

rich in sense

ubiquitous in use,

it has the power to take gist

from whatever comes next

 

if the story tells of “dressing” vines,

it reads “working” vines.

if a field is tilled,

it reads the field is “worked”.

 

the range of its root is so wide that

quite often

it results in self-contradiction

 

just like poetry

 

 

3. junk food ghazal

 

 

kfc, burger king, mc donald’s, pizza hut, and now even subway.

a new junk food joint opened in my street today.

 

kids in the hood with supersize pants and flabby bellies.

in the old days they were thin, they are all unfit today.

 

young women and men utterly out of shape.

this country is for the obese, there’s no petite today.

 

triple dipping chips and onion rings dotted with black spots.

add tomato sauce, and serve them with your meat today.

 

burnt bacon, paper textured bread, hot dogs that taste like gum cigars.

mouths stuffed with so much shit today.

 

plastic lettuce, chicken flavoured rubber, weird peppers added for no reason.

there’s nothing else to eat today?

 

“it’s all grease, all grease!”, #RaphaelHatesJunkFood

is what i am going to tweet today.

 

 

4. father and daughter

“the river was an immortal mother”

– Malika Ndlovu

 

once i took my daughter

up the mountain

to watch the wolves

running.

 

(i always enjoy

dipping back into

this memory,

as it becomes yarn, string

or thread)

 

“how would you spend

the next 100 years,

if you knew they were your last?”

i asked her.

 

“by asking:

what am i great at?

what can i give to the world?”

she said.

“baking cupcakes, playing cards

and searching for gold”,

she added.

 

five years later,

still searching,

with simplicity

she reminded me to

always ease the moment.

 

somewhere deep inside my soul,

a tiny bone shattered.

the change was subtle, but

awakened my interest in

butterflies and buds.

 

after all she gave to me,

i needed to honour her –

and it had to be done through a poem.

 

i went looking for her,

 

and found her sitting on a riverbank,

waiting for me.

 

the river was staring at her.

it followed her guiding eyes.

 

fish were surfacing,

like memories of childhood days,

 

to take pieces of bread

from her cupped hands.

 

 

5. ruba’i of the night

 

revel not in the memories of greener pastures

forget not what the wine-drinkers told you before dawn

catch the cherry flowers the wind has snatched away

in this afterworld you’re on your own

 

 

Raphael d’Abdon was born in Udine (Friuli-Italy) and lives in Pretoria (South Africa). He is a writer, scholar, spoken word poet, editor and translator, and the author of three poetry collections, sunnyside nightwalk (2013), salt water (2016) and the bitter herb (2018). He also edited the volume Marikana. A Moment in Time, and translated into Italian (with Lorenzo Mari) Bless Me Father, the autobiography of South African poet Mario d’Offizi. His poems appear in journals, magazines and anthologies in South Africa, Ghana, Palestine, Singapore, India, Italy, USA, and UK, and he has read his poetry in South Africa, Nigeria, Somaliland, Italy, and the US.